


Olympic Tryouts (part 10)

by jennamacaroni



Series: Olympic Tryouts [10]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-02-09 23:31:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2002260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jennamacaroni/pseuds/jennamacaroni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Santana and Brittany have been rivals in the college hockey world for the past four years.  now they’re both at Olympic tryouts to play on the same team and Boston and Minnesota just don’t get along, okay?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Olympic Tryouts (part 10)

**Author's Note:**

> quick turnaround between parts 9 and 10.
> 
> a huuuuge thank you to everyone who has sent asks/liked/reblogged this little universe, i can’t tell you how much it means to me.

Mercedes and Tina still have six cups left by the time Brittany tosses a perfect arcing shot to sink the second-to-last cup. “Heating up,” Brittany calls out smugly after making her second in a row.

She and Santana sip leisurely as Tina and Mercedes both groan loudly at the opposite end of the table, Tina plucking the ball from the cup and pouring the contents into her own nearly-full cup.

“It’s fucking sorcery,” Mercedes huffs, shaking her head and lining up to take her shot. It bounces off the rim of the back cup straight into the air where Santana snatches before it has the opportunity to fall into a different cup. Tina’s shot is also off the mark.

“Back me up,” Santana mumbles, nudging Brittany softly out of the way so she can get a clear line. As she settles her blurry attention on the last cup and lines up her feet, she shakes out her arms and everything becomes quiet. She tunes out the blaring music and the laughs and shouts of encouragement from the bystanders until all she can hear is her own steady breathing. _Come on, Lopez, you can do this_ , she thinks, taking one more deep breath before flicking a clean shot looping over the table and draining the last cup smoothly. She roars in celebration and before she knows it, Brittany has lifted her clear off her feet, crowing in celebration.

Once she’s back on the ground, Santana grins across the table at the dejected and slack-jawed looks splayed across Mercedes and Tina’s faces, feeling the slightest twinge of pity because they just got smoked. She turns to Brittany and bows, sweeping her hand across the end of the table as if presenting her a stage for her final shot. Brittany’s smile is so goofy and bright with her head cocked sideways that Santana can’t help but grin stupidly back, stifling a laugh at her own ridiculousness.

“Go get ‘em, Tiger,” she whispers, leaning in close. She swears she sees Brittany shiver, but brushes it off as a figment of her drunken imagination.

“Sorry guys,” Brittany warns, before arcing the ball across the table and watching it splash into the cup. “And boom goes the dynamite,” she deadpans, hands miming a mushroom cloud exploding and barely holding a straight face as Mercedes and Tina each throw an exasperated free hand into the air and stalk off.

“Next?” Santana shouts to the room, as Brittany throws an arm across her shoulder, knocking her slightly off-balance but grinning like a jack-o-lantern all the same.

_____

She crosses the line to really drunk after their third straight win on the beer pong table, both leaning heavily on each other in between the final shots of game, giggling at everything and nothing surrounding them. Eventually no one steps up to challenge them, the meager crowd surrounding the table looking like deer in headlights at the prospect.

“You’re all chicken shit!” Brittany bursts, before turning towards the sound of Rachel Berry belting out Katy Perry, grimacing in mock-disgust and taking off on a beeline towards the karaoke machine.

Santana is drinking water straight from the tap as Brittany snatches the microphone right out of Rachel’s hand mid-verse, flips on an imaginary snapback, brushes some dirt off her shoulder and comes in on point with the Juicy J rap in Dark Horse.

Santana stands open-mouthed and gaping across the kitchen while the tap continues to run, enraptured by this new thug Brittany, her fist closed around the mouthpiece of the microphone held against her lips. She watches as Brittany is completely transformed, a smooth flow as the words tumble effortlessly from her lips and almost other-worldly dance moves that Santana couldn’t even dream up. She wonders if Brittany is just good at everything there is to be good at.

She feels a hard slap on the ass as Quinn bounds down the staircase and into the kitchen. Her hair is a wild mane of blonde sticking in all directions and her hazel eyes are slightly unfocused as she leans around Santana and leers towards the ruckus.

“You know if you keep staring, your face may freeze that way,” Quinn jests, resting her head on Santana’s shoulder and following her gaze to fall upon Brittany who has since relinquished the microphone back to Rachel for the closing chorus but is still pop-and-locking across the carpet.

“You’ve got a cruuuuuushhhh on herrrrrr,” Quinn sing-songs dreamily, snaking her hands around Santana’s waist.

“Do not,” Santana grunts, shrugging Quinn off roughly. “And shut up, would you?”

“Do soooooo! And now you’re all grumpy-gills because I figured it ouuuuut!” Quin crows. Santana hates the pure joy that Quinn gets out of both teasing and having some dirt on her best friend.

“Good thing neither of us will remember this conversation tomorrow,” Santana reasons, looking quickly around to ensure no one overheard them before pushing Quinn towards the dance floor and peeling off to the back porch for some air.

_____

There’s still a rowdy flip cup game going on out on the back porch, so Santana drags a lounge chair down the deck stairs and all the way to the back of the yard. It’s far enough from the house that it’s quiet enough for Santana to get her bearings and try and evaluate her level of drunkenness. She’s smashed but not ready-to-puke wasted and is happy to lie back for a quick break from the action, gazing up at the starry Colorado sky and watching the patterns of stars swirl with her spinning vision.

She has her eyes closed when she hears footsteps. “I’m not passed out, don’t worry,” she throws out to the intruder, not bothering to look.

“Well good, because that would be no fun whatsoever,” Brittany teases, sidling up next to the chair. Santana feels her heart beat accelerate so fast it feels like its about to burst from her chest. “Shove over,” she orders, prodding Santana’s thigh gently until she shuffles enough for Brittany to squeeze in next to her. Brittany has to lie sideways in order to fit, throwing her leg and arm across Santana easily and burrowing her head into the bunched up hood of Santana’s sweatshirt. “Mmm you smell good,” Brittany whispers, sniffing loudly, “kind of like my dad.” Her giggle starts soft until she hiccups suddenly and burps. “Excuse me!” she exclaims politely.

“That’ll be my deoderant. Old Spice,” Santana mumbles, feeling her face flush immediately as she squeezes her eyes even further shut in embarrassment. She keeps both hands firmly pressed to her sides, rigid as a board and trying her hardest not to spontaneously combust.

“Ha remember when we hated each other?” Brittany hiccups again before pausing. “Tell me about Boston,” she whispers, tucking her hand into the front pocket of the sweatshirt and splaying her hand across Santana’s stomach. “I feel like I don’t know anything about you. We are roommates after all, and maybe future best friends and maybe like the best one-two punch women’s hockey has ever seen. Do you pahk ya cah in Hahvahd Yahd?” she caws in her tackiest Boston accent.

The laughter bubbles up through Santana’s lips like a reflex as she shakes her head slowly, her muscles starting to relax and soften as she focuses on breathing and not the fact that the prettiest girl she’s maybe ever seen is all up in her personal space on a lawn chair made for one. “Well,” she starts, wondering where to begin and what won’t bore the pants off Brittany or make her seem like a total loser. “I’m from Winthrop, which is east of the city proper out on the water just past the airport. You have to take at least one tunnel to get there…” She loses her train of thought when Brittany reaches for one of her hands and pulls it into the pocket, tracing each finger nail methodically.

“Umm,” she continues, battling a dry mouth of nerves, “my parent’s house is actually right along one of the incoming runway pathways so the jets fly super low and make a hell of a lot of noise on a regular basis, but you actually get used to it to the point where you don’t even notice anymore. And you can see the harbor from my old bedroom.” Brittany starts scratching lightly at her palm and it’s oh-so-distracting. “The town is tiny where everybody is all up in everyone else’s business, where our families have lived for generations and probably will continue to live maybe forever,” she bemoans.

“But not you,” Brittany finishes, Santana turning her head slightly to meet clear blue unblinking eyes.

“No, not me,” Santana whispers, staring back. The moment feels heavy and meaningful for a reason Santana can’t place.

“BRITTANY!” someone shrieks from the back porch. “WHERE ARE YOU? YOUR SONG IS UP!” Brittany sighs and rolls her eyes deftly before pushing herself off the chair and offering Santana a hand up.

“Cool your jets, Rachel, I’ll be in in a second!” she calls back across the yard. “Common, San,” she whispers, wrapping their pinkies together and pulling her back to the house. Santana feels her brain short-circuit at the nickname but allows herself to be dragged back into the chaos.


End file.
